by Amy Lillard
Gideon shrugged. “Just didn’t.”
“Well?” She stared at him. “What did you think of them?”
He nodded. “They’re fine, I s’pose. Smaller than I thought. Still bigger’n sheep.”
“They’re good creatures.”
“Jah,” he said. “They seemed to be.”
“Oh, that’s so exciting. I wish I could have seen them too. Are they as pretty as in the pictures I showed you?”
He tilted his head to one side and squinted at her. “You don’t know?”
Avery shook her head.
“Why not?”
“I’ve never actually seen one. I mean, I’ve seen regular llamas at the zoo and—”
“Are you tellin’ me, Miss Annie Hamilton, that you’re tryin’ to get me to invest all my hard-earned money in creatures that you’ve never even laid eyes on?”
“I’ve seen them in pictures and in books.”
“I’m not sure that counts.”
“They say they’re very docile and beautiful creatures,” she said, attempting to change the subject.
“Jah. That they are.”
They must have left an impression on him if he was moved to talk about them nearly a week after the auction. Maybe he’d come around to her thinking after all.
She shifted and tucked her legs under her, the green flip-flops abandoned at the edge of the quilt. “Tell me about the service.”
“It was gut.”
“That’s not telling me anything. What was the sermon about?”
He shrugged. “Followin’ God.”
She waited for him to continue. Something in his manner, the slant of his shoulders, the angle of his chin, made her think the service had left shadows behind.
“It’s hard to know,” he said finally, “what God wants from you.”
“I suppose.” Before coming to Amish country, she hadn’t known what God had wanted from her—hadn’t even known that God wanted anything at all from her—and yet here her understanding had changed. Here she could feel God all around.
He sighed, picked at a blade of grass, and tossed it aside. “More often than not.”
“Maybe you’re just having trouble listening.”
“Maybe.”
He sat quietly for a moment. Avery wondered if he was thinking about what she’d said, maybe even what she’d read.
“I guess it’s all about faith.” Sometimes faith was hard to come by, but she had seen it on Samuel’s sweet face, and shining in the eyes of Ruth and Abram as they talked about her condition. “How’s your mother?”
“Gut.”
A sweet spring breeze whistled through the branches of the tree above them. Birds sang to each other from their perches, and a few yards away Louie yapped at a squirrel.
“How are they going to pay?” They both knew she was talking about the costly cancer treatments his mother had agreed to take. Avery wished the Fishers had let her give them her car or call her father for some money, or even start a fund in Ruth’s honor. All their talk about the perils of pride, it was still alive and well in this Amish family.
“The Lord will provide.” He sounded so much like his father, so confident and sure, but a frown of worry puckered his brow.
Avery didn’t think twice. She reached out and smoothed the wrinkles of his brow, then laid her hand against his cheek. His skin felt smooth against her fingers, his beard springy and coarse against her palm.
Despite all the activity of nature that surrounded them, the world stood still.
His gaze locked with hers, and she could see the want and need, the concern and worry, in those mossy green depths. Then she did what she had wanted to do so many days ago. She closed her eyes and leaned toward him.
His lips were warm, faintly salty and pliant beneath hers. He neither fought her touch, nor did he participate. But she was encouraged by the hitch in his breathing and the sigh that followed it. For all his noble and faithful nature, he had wanted this as much as she had, though she had known all along the first move would have to be hers.
She reveled in the sensation and all the other small differences that made him who he was. That he smelled like laundry detergent and man with a whiff of fresh hay thrown in for good measure.
As if unable to help himself, he kissed her back. He touched her nowhere but her lips, yet she could feel him all around her. When she ran her fingers through the length of hair brushing his collar, hoping to draw him closer still, he cupped his hands on the sides of her face and pulled away from her.
“Annie, sweet Annie.” He expelled a breath as he rested his forehead against hers and sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” She smiled though her heart was nearly breaking. Was he sorry because he still loved his wife? Because he could never care for her the way he did another?
He kissed her hard on the mouth, just once, then let her go.
He had to. Otherwise he might go on holding her and kissing her until the sun came up the next day.
He couldn’t deny it. He had wanted to kiss her since the first time he’d seen her in that slip of a dress. Even with her hair matted with blood.
Thinking about seeing her for the first time was a sharp reminder that she was from a different world—something he had been able to put aside as long as she was wearing a frack and a prayer cap. Soon she would be leaving regardless of the fact that she seemed to be adapting to his world with more grace and eagerness than he’d thought possible.
He stood up on the pretense of looking for Louie who still pranced through the grass after every type of creature unfortunate enough to cross his path.
“Is it because of her?” Her voice was light as a feather, as if the question had slipped out on its own.
“Miriam?” He felt as if he had been goosed with a hot poker. He swung around to face her. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because . . . because she was your wife, and . . . you still love her.”
“Jah.” He nodded, hooking his thumbs through his suspenders, needing something to do with his hands. “I’ll always love her. She was a good woman, my Miriam.”
“I understand.”
He could tell she was lying.
“Time to head back.” Her voice sounded falsely bright as she started gathering up the remnants of their picnic and placing them in the basket.
He couldn’t let it end this way. It couldn’t go on, but it couldn’t end like this. His shadow fell over her and blocked out the sun. “Annie?”
“Hmm?” She tried to appear as if nothing was wrong, but wouldn’t look at him.
He dropped to his knees on the blanket beside her. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that.”
She gave him a wistful smile. “I think it was the other way around.”
“Not from where I’m standin’.”
“You’re a good man, Gideon Fisher.”
“And you’re a good woman, Annie Hamilton. Now go get your mutt, and let’s head back to the house. I’ve got a cow to milk.”
He reached out to help her to her feet. Together, they walked hand in hand back to the house. If it was all he could have, he’d take it. Her hand was warm and tiny in his, and yet he could feel a strength in her he was certain hadn’t been there before.
Her time with him had changed her. It had changed him too, for the better. Ach, but he would miss her when she was gone.
He squeezed her fingers, and she turned to look at him.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” A smile played at the corners of his lips. There was so much about her that he would miss. “What’s for supper?”
“Is that all you think about? Eating?”
“Jah.” It was all he could let himself thi
nk about when she was near. Otherwise he might start thinking about things better left alone. “Want to learn how to milk the cow?” He shouldn’t have asked, but Honey needed to be milked, and he was reluctant to see Annie go into the house alone. One thing was certain, tomorrow would bring change, and he wanted to hold onto today as long as he could.
“Yeah.” A smile split her face. “I would.”
The barn was cool and dim when he led her inside. “Grab that bucket.” He pointed to the metal pail hanging just outside Honey’s stall. “Then wait here.”
Then he left her alone.
Avery did as she was told, shifting patiently from one foot to the other as she waited for Gideon to return. He went out the Dutch door at the other end of the barn, the one that led to the pasture. She could hear him calling for Honey, then whistle, followed by the low moo of the sweet-faced bovine.
Without so much as a rope, Gideon led the cow inside.
“How did you do that?” Avery asked.
“She knows what she’s supposed to do. Right, girl?” He patted her on the side, but she chewed on a mouthful of hay without batting an eye.
Gideon motioned for Avery to approach. “Come on.” He hooked one foot under the seat of a three-legged stool and pulled it closer. “Sit here.”
Up close, the cow looked bigger than Avery had imagined. Definitely bigger than she looked from across the pasture. “Are you sure she’s okay with this?”
Gideon’s mouth twitched, as if trying to hide a smile. “For sure and for certain.”
“Uh-hum, okay.” She inched closer, each step making the cow look that much larger than before. She could do this. She wanted to do this. She took a deep, fortifying breath and eased herself onto the stool.
Gideon took the bucket from her and placed it on the ground under Honey’s enlarged udders. “First thing,” he said, “is to get her to let down her milk.”
“Okay.”
“Ever see a calf come to nurse?”
Avery nodded.
“He doesn’t just walk up and start right in. He nudges around on his mamm, letting her know his intent. When she feels him, she starts to relax. Then her milk comes down.” He spoke, all the while massaging Honey’s hindquarters, rubbing his hands down her sides, and gently pressing on her udders with his fist.
“I think she’s ready now,” he said, guiding Avery’s hand to the swollen udder.
The pale pink skin was soft to the touch, barely covered with a fine bit of fur, firm though mushy under her fingertips. “Are you sure this won’t hurt her?”
“I’m sure. Now.” Gideon held up his hands, pressing his fingers together while moving only his thumbs back and forth. “Hold her teat in between there and squeeze, but don’t pull.”
“Squeeze, don’t pull,” Avery repeated.
“Wrap your fingers around and—”
A stream of milk shot down into the bucket.
“I did it!”
“That you did.”
Avery tried again. Carefully she grasped the teat in the vee made between her forefinger and thumb. Careful not to pull, she wrapped her fingers around, but this time no milk came. “What did I do wrong?”
“Place your hand here.” Gideon demonstrated, pushing his hand right up under the udder. “If you get ahold too low, the milk will go back up.”
Avery did as he showed her, and once again, milk squirted into the bucket.
She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face—even though it seemed silly to be proud of herself for something Lizzie had been doing since she could walk. But she was.
Avery Ann Hamilton, city girl extraordinaire, could milk a cow.
Of course, milking a cow was not glamorous, and was in fact, hard work. Her hands became tired long before the milking was complete.
“I’ll finish up,” Gideon said, allowing her to stand before taking her place on the stool.
Avery flexed her fingers. “That takes some muscles.” She watched him milk the cow, his movements steady, rhythmic.
“It’s just ’cause you’re not used to it. Give it a couple of weeks and . . .”
Neither one of them knew what tomorrow would hold for him. Most likely, she wouldn’t be there in a couple of weeks.
Avery crossed her arms, the perfect moment tainted by thoughts of the unknown. Suddenly, the barn felt confining, stifling. She drew in a breath. “I’ll just go . . . start supper.”
“Jah.” He turned all his attention to a chore she was sure he could complete in his sleep.
Avery stared at those broad shoulders for a minute more, then turned and made her way back into the house.
13
Monday dawned with a bright, blue sky filled with summer sunshine and budding trees filled with singing birds. A beautiful day for a reckoning.
Gideon did his best to act like normal. He went out to the barn while Annie made coffee. He milked the cow. He tended the horses and saw to the mule he’d bought at the auction. It was a day like any other, but it had the sad, sweet sting of endings.
Annie could feel it, too. She was quiet and thoughtful, watching him as if he might disappear without a trace. He wanted to comfort her, to smooth a hand down the silky slope of her cheek and tell her it would be okay.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Thankfully, Mary Elizabeth came by the house just after breakfast and convinced Annie to go down by the creek and see if any of the wild strawberries were ripe. Gideon could tell that Annie didn’t want to leave, but Mary Elizabeth could be quite persuasive when she set her mind to it.
Gideon was thankful for his niece’s help. He didn’t want Annie around the house when the elders called.
They showed up around ten, came together in one buggy—the bishop, the deacon, and both ministers. Gideon was surprised they all came. Usually the bishop sent the deacon out first to talk to the offender, and if he couldn’t make any progress, then the bishop himself would arrive. Evidently Gideon’s infraction was serious enough to warrant them all. They were a mismatched foursome held together by the Y strap of their suspenders and the narrow brims of their hats.
Bishop Beachy, the chosen leader of the district, led the men toward the porch where Gideon waited. He was followed closely by the ministers, John Zook and Daniel Glick, and not so closely by the elder deacon, Ezekiel Esh. Beachy, Zook, and Glick walked arrow straight while Esh hobbled forward, bent almost in half with rheumatism.
Wouldn’t be long, Gideon thought, before Old Zeke stepped down and another man was chosen by lot to be the new deacon of the district.
The men nodded their greetings all around, but no pleasantries were exchanged. It wasn’t that kind of visit.
“Gideon Fisher,” the bishop started. “Come down off the porch. We need a word with you.”
He did as he was told, standing before the men who stood side by side, the undisputed representatives of the church . . . and God.
“There’s been some talk around the district.”
Gideon nodded.
“Heard tell you shaved your beard.”
“You heard right.”
“I’ll ask you why you did such-a thing.”
“My Miriam’s gone.” He realized for the first time in months that he could say the words without his heart bleeding. But Jamie’s name wouldn’t tumble from his lips. Losing a child was a pain that would never ease. “A Plain man’s beard is a mark of his family. I didn’t think I deserved to wear it.”
“And now?”
“It’s about followin’ God and bein’ a part of somethin’ greater than oneself.”
“That’s a big turnaround for a few weeks.”
“Jah.” He couldn’t take the credit himself. That was all Annie’s. She was the reason he’d rethought his unworthy st
ate, the reason he had hope and faith again.
“Even been said you had an Englischer stayin’ with you.”
“Jah.”
“A woman.”
“It’s true.”
Deacon’s eyebrows shot up so high they disappeared under the brim of his hat.
Gideon supposed they didn’t expect him to admit to it, but he couldn’t lie. “I know why you’re here.”
No one said anything, but the elders looked at each other and shifted in place. Old Zeke changed his cane from one hand to the other.
“You’ll need to be prepared at the next service,” the bishop finally said.
Gideon nodded. “I am.”
The bishop gestured toward the other men standing with him. “And we think it’s time for you to marry again.”
“Pardon?” He blinked once, trying to collect his thoughts. This was not at all what he’d expected to hear. He’d been ready for the threat of a shunning, a repentance, a declaration of the wrongs he had committed in the past year.
But a wife?
“You know Rachael Miller.” Bishop Beachy’s wire-rimmed glasses reflected the sun as he nodded.
The bishop’s niece. Gideon nodded. “I do.”
“She’s in need of a husband and a father for her two little girls.”
“We think you’re the man for that,” Esh shouted. Along with his many ailments of advancing age, he was hard of hearing as well.
Gideon hid his shock in the clench of his jaw, knowing it best not to let it show, best not to let his protest turn into outright insubordination. “I wasn’t aware the church had started arranging marriages.” He had done wrong, and he would change his ways—but this seemed so drastic.
“You don’t have to marry her,” John Zook clarified. “But—”
“We think it best you find a wife,” the bishop added. “And Rachael is a fine woman.”
“Jah.” She was a fine woman. A little on the plain side, but sweet of disposition and not hard on the eyes. She was quiet and obedient and perfect for any man like . . . Gabriel. But if Gideon ever married again, he wanted a woman with more spunk. His Miriam had been a lot like Rachael—good, honest, malleable. If he’d been asked then, he would have said it was a gut match. Now he wanted something more in a life mate.
